Steve Henry

The other miners desperately tried to break apart the rocks that blocked the path ahead. Pliers, hammers, hacksaws and even a stick of dynamite scarred the dusty black stone but nothing would move. Bloodied hands and weary men proved that much. Then we knew

We were trapped. We all knew the air would run thin and that in the smog of black dust we'd die. I'd broken my sledge.

I'd broken it. Woozily I looked down at the splintered fiberglass and the shredded rubber handle. The cheap black molding was sticky from sweat and packed with dust. The head had mushroomed and the other face had cracked. I squinted at it in the dim light and sure enough there were letters carved there. Made in China. I dropped the head to the ground where it hit the stone with a dull thud and tossed away the handle.

I wasn't political. Unlike the other men here with the stickers and flags on their luxury trucks I wasn't looking for someone to blame. The only person to blame here was me. I was always trying to cut some corner or find my way out. It was how I'd ended up here.

Growing weaker I stumbled towards the back of the cave and leaned against the cool granite. For the first time in a long time I began to pray.

I started to think of everything I hadn't said. Everything I hadn't done because I wouldn't gain anything from it. I'd even walked out of that interview because I hadn't wanted an internship in the first place. Looking around at the older men I realized that I'd been selfish. I'd done so much harm here. They didn't deserve to lose their lives because of me.

So I prayed and I hoped that God was listening. I made a promise to him.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Give me strength and I will sacrifice myself for these men. Amen"

By the time I finished my prayer the foreman and the other miners were sitting quietly and trying to conserve what little oxygen was left. Shallow panting filled the silence. They looked at the way I had made the sign of the cross with contempt.

Defeated I slid down the granite face. There was no miracle that could save someone undeserving like me. Just then I felt something poke my shoulder as I leaned back into the wall. It was rough and hard.

I turned and saw the old sledge that had been buried in the stone long before I'd started working here. Before any of us had. I'd heard that the picks and air tools couldn't budge it from the tough stone so there it had stayed. They couldn't blow apart the whole rock or this section would collapse.

Standing in front of it I closed my eyes and prayed one more time. Then I pulled it from the granite where it was set. The stone crumbled away.

Then in my hands I knew at once that I was holding a work of art. Something incredible from a bygone age. I knew that only one existed and that I was holding it.

The handle had been lovingly buffed with linseed oil lending it a tacky brown coat that had preserved the hickory against moisture and dirt all this time. Even exposed to the harsh conditions of the mine it hadn't cracked. The hard steel of the head rang like the most perfect bell as I rapped a knuckle against the face. The metal had been wiped with oil and wax so many times that it had developed a varnished patina that had protected it against rust.

On the side of the head the name John Henry was embossed. I could picture each letter being pounded into the red hot iron on the anvil just like my Pa showed me. Silently I thanked John Henry whoever he was for giving me this across time. One man to another. I knew what this hammer meant because of what my father had tried to teach me.

I hefted it and felt new strength welling up in me. Like a miracle. I knew what I had to do.